


Quicksilver and Starlight

by Darkling_Moth



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkling_Moth/pseuds/Darkling_Moth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred experiences a unique transformation in synch with the lunar cycle. He's tried various methods to suppress it for the good of his budding romance with Arthur. But when they get intimate on the night of a full moon...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at Hetalia or MM pairing. Work in progress (will be at least 3 installments)

Though the room is almost utterly without light, Alfred feels he can see Arthur’s silhouette darker against dark. A velvet shadow, poised, familiar but with an edge of mystery that makes Alfred’s heart rise to his throat and flutter as if he has swallowed a butterfly.  
He wants to speak out- to say the name perched on his lips- but does not want to ruin the beautiful silence that lingers between them. He fears his voice would shatter like glass. Instead he licks the name off his lips. It tastes of salt.  
Across a floor of ancient stone, cold tempered by a plush rug, Arthur shifts in the shadows, “I want to see you.” He says this so quietly that, had it not been entirely still, Alfred would not have been able to make out the words.  
Without taking his eyes from the corner Arthur inhabits, Alfred slides back on the bed up toward the grand headboard, the whisper of velvet and down filled comforters beneath him. He knows in a moment he will be illuminated and is equal parts excited and timid. Will Arthur like what he sees? He wonders. We have never known each other in quite this way…  
Alfred reaches for the curtain sash, not realizing his hands are shaking until the braided cord lays in his palm. Always the strong one, he now flutters like a leaf as he pulls the curtain back, allowing pale shafts of moonlight to spill onto his face, onto the bed, and across his naked body. The moon is full.  
He shivers.  
The pallid beam stops just shy of the figure in the corner. Alfred sees only the tips of Arthur’s shoes shift as he moves his weight from one hip to the other against the wall. Alfred hears the sharp intake of breath as if it were an inch from his ear. He thinks he can hear the accompanying smile.  
“Lovely,” Arthur speaks a bit louder and Alfred is certain now that he is smiling for that voice has been familiar all his life, even if this situation is foreign territory. A sigh escapes Arthur but he does not advance. Not yet.  
Alfred looks down at himself in hopes of seeing some semblance of what Arthur sees. His skin glows, moon-kissed, and despite the intimacy of the moment he begins to feel displaced.  
It has been nearly three full lunar cycles since Alfred has undergone the Change but the memories are still too close. As he looks at the hairs pricking up on his forearm- golden in sun and silver in moonlight- it is all to easy for him to remember their feral transformation, covering him in coarseness. With this memory comes others- the lone wandering in the forest, waking alone on a bed of Autumn spent leaves with the fragrance of pine heavy in his nostrils, lost time and so many questions in the waking dawn. And the hunger-  
Arthur steps from the shadows, shedding them like a cloak. Although he is still fully dressed the expression in his eyes could not be more naked, more vulnerable.  
Alfred feels the hunger stir in him, frightening and familiar. Instinctually he pushes himself back from the figure before him.  
Long ago- ages, it seems- when he was but a colony Alfred was bequeathed with this strange gift. This transformation. He does not even remember how it happened, save that is was born from the wildness of his youth. A tithe for his easy conquests. A curse, perhaps?  
Perhaps. All he knows is that the feeling is second nature, as deeply ingrained as anything else instinctual. The need to run wild beneath the pale visage of the moon, hunt in the darkness. So different from his daily life- the part of him that smiles easily and sees all things bright and hopeful.  
He began drinking the concoction when he realised things were about to change with Arthur. Some stirring deep inside him told him it would not be good for this new stage of their relations to be unpredictably feral. Until recently he’s hidden himself away, taking trips deep into the woods until the cycle passed. Though it is freeing as it comes upon him, in the light of the sun it feels like a shameful secret. A secret only Canada knows, having an understanding and affinity for wild things himself.  
But England is different. The darker parts of him hide under centuries of refined gentlemanly aires, the primitive abandoned for the niceties of everyday life. Pagan festivals given way to tea time etiquette. In fact, the only time he believes England could have any idea how he feels during these lunar lapses is when he’s boorishly drunk.  
But England is not drunk now. Not even close.  
“What’s wrong, luv?” the sound of Arthur’s voice is still subdued but has taken on an edge of concern which makes Alfred flinch. The last thing he wants is to ruin this delicious tension.  
“N-Nothing,” he says, wincing again at the less-than-melodic sound of his own words. “Only I feel… exposed.” He makes certain to lower his tone on the last word so it resonates with more invitation than complaint.  
Arthur willingly takes the bait, “Would you like to cover yourself?” he teases, “Perhaps one of my many blankets? Or… “ taking another step forward, cocking his head to one side and letting his gaze take in Alfred’s every feature slowly from head to toe and back up again, “Perhaps you would like me to cover you with myself?”  
Alfred nods slowly and instantly the tension between them is cinched tighter, almost humming.  
And then something unexpected happens: Alfred’s stomach growls.  
The two men blink at each other, the sound echoing in the bedchamber off every hard surface.  
Cursing Arthur’s fine taste for wood and stone, Alfred closes his eyes. He is glad for the darkness- all the blood is rushing to his cheeks and he feels his face glow like embers.  
“Hungry, are we?” Arthur is smiling again, but surprisingly not in a way that breaks the mood. He wiggles those thick eyebrows of his and a familiar and comforting warmth spread within Alfred at the sight.  
“For you,” he responds, flashing a lustful grin of his own. He hopes it’s not terrifying. The grumbling in his stomach is replaced with the flutter of anticipation as Arthur comes closer, but-  
Hunger is hunger. Instinct is instinct. Hunger is instinct, too.  
Alfred now no longer cares for his own appearance- whether or not he is pleasing to Arthur- all he wants is to peel his lover out of the silly husk of clothes he wears, removing any layer between them besides perhaps the sweat he now feels run in a rivulet down his bare back… there is nothing but the impending feel, the scent, the raw taste of Arthur on his mind.  
Arthur seems to register this and takes half a step back (just half, Alfred notes) and for the first time he looks as if he might be prey instead of predator.  
Behind Alfred the moon burns like a sun, the light from her pale face turning his blood to quicksilver and his eyes dart down to see if his body is responding the way his mind is. For now, he remains in his human form. But everything else is pulsating with primitive energy and the blush has drained from his face and stirs between his legs and the hunger makes his skin prickle with desire and heat and he fears he will be lost to transformation, suppressant or not, and then-  
Arthur is standing before him and Alfred can smell his skin- salty, like a cold blue sea. There are undertones of bergamot from the Earl Grey he drinks, a sweetness like freshly baked things, the musty leather of old books and the minerality of fog… but best of all that fragrance he cannot name- the one that is purely Arthur.  
Alfred watches his own hands reach out, unbidden, moving on instinct to touch the hem of Arthur’s shirt. He wills himself to be gentle though it takes all of his self control not to rip away the leather and tweed binding his love. This is the first time and perhaps he should be wise, perhaps he should wait until the need passes but each moment he hesitates is another that brings him closer to the point of no return.  
This is real… this is happening…


	2. Chapter 2

The tips of his fingers play lightly on Alfred’s sides, now pale and exposed in the moonlight. Where Alfred is plump, muscular, Arthur is lean. Shadows pool along his hip bones, that exquisite definition leading downward which Alfred cannot resist tracing with one long index finger as Arthur inhales sharply. His eyes are still open but rolled back so all that is visible when Alfred looks up is the shadow of lashes fluttering against his cheek.   
He is quickly becoming ravenous. His stomach makes another low growl but the sound is lost beneath Arthur’s involuntary moan as Alfred follows the trail made by his index finger with his tongue. It is warm against Arthur’s newly exposed flesh and he can feel goosebumps beading beneath his lips and he smiles against Arthur’s hip and pulls him closer, hands fanning out on the back of his thighs drawing him in…  
He is tossing around the idea of asking for permission- wanting to be considerate of his partner, especially now his instincts seem to be getting the better of him. It’s as if all of the wildness he has suppressed with his new treatment has been coiled up inside, laying in wait for this moment.  
The answer to his unasked question comes in the form of Arthur’s hands displacing his own, tugging at his belt, whimpering slightly as it fails to come undone and so they undress him together; Arthur’s fingers unbuttoning, unzipping awkwardly and Alfred’s covering each new surface fluidly with caresses followed by kisses, followed by smallish bites. Each new contact alights a spark within him, kindling the hunger which he has tried desperately to quell.  
Arthur seems not to mind, even when Alfred’s teeth graze his hip bone and his knuckles eagerly as he removes the last of his garments. He responds by whispering Alfred’s name between whimpers, and then he is standing there, gloriously naked in the moonlight.  
They look at each other as if they have never seen one another before, though all the history between them has led to this moment, each event bringing them closer together until there is no choice but for it to culminate in this encounter…  
Alfred can’t help himself and breaks out into a wide wolfish grin as Arthur’s fingers entwine in his hair, teasing the cowlick in a way that is both endearing and maddening.  
The clouds part and the full force of the moon floods the room. The stones shine like pewter and even the dust motes pick up the rays, sparkling like stardust, framing Arthur’s face and Alfred sees a single tear escape the corner as he looks down, his expression pure disbelief and an affection that makes both his heart and his cock stir simultaneously.   
Alfred reaches up; his hand is large enough to cup the other man’s face almost entirely and Alfred wonders if he is beginning to transform but none of the other telltale signs are there. At least externally. Inside, he feels as feral and wild as he ever has, the moon charging him the way a solar panel responds to sun and he feels radiant with energy, with hunger, and now with an insatiable lust that begins to frighten him as he looks at Arthur’s vulnerable face, takes the single tear on his finger and, while Arthur watches breathlessly, paints his lower lip with it- licking it away with a gesture that makes Arthur shudder beneath his palms and then he knows it is all over. They are both undone.   
Arthur looks about to swoon and Alfred takes one moment, though it demands all the restraint he has left to do so, and half growls, “So hungry for you… What if I… hurt you?”  
Arthur smiles in dismissal and concedes, “Do what you will.”  
Alfred pauses for one last moment then decides to leave the gentlemanly behaviour to Arthur and in one fell swoop throws Arthur down on the bed where he perches above him, straddling but not sitting, pinning Arthur’s hands to the velvet bedspread and is biting his neck, feeling Arthur’s pulse quicken beneath him, making him smile and above all making him mad-crazy with desire.   
He works his way down, first nipping then licking as Arthur turns his head into the blankets, taking them in fistfuls and murmuring Alfred’s name into their velvet depths. The moonlight illuminates one side of Arthur’s face and the breath catches in Alfred’s throat as he looks at his lover, eyes shut and lips parted in a prelude of ecstasy. He is beautiful- a thing Alfred wants to tell him but he cannot find his voice.  
“Don’t stop-“ Arthur pleads, his eyes open to reveal the greenest hue, incandescent in the moonlight. It reminds Alfred of a night long ago when he caught the clearest aurora borealis he had ever seen- all greens and blues like an inverse ocean. He imagines now his own eyes glowing with waking need and the merging of the verdant jade with his own azure when he looks at Arthur, the way the land meets the sea, gazes crashing into each other creating a starburst between them.   
The hunger is overtaking him and his own hands feel as if they are turning to claws and he removes them from Arthur’s body to a whimper of protest, punching them down into the bed on either side of the man beneath him, noticing that they are no more than human hands though for everything he is feeling he’s surprised he’s not taken on the form of a slavering beast. The things Arthur makes him feel…  
Carefully, lovingly but firmly, he resumes with his tongue where his fingers left off, making sure to go slowly. Arthur is a banquet and though Alfred wishes to consume him in one huge mouthful he holds back, savouring each flavour.   
First there is the fragrance of Arthur’s hair which Alfred inhales deeply each time he bites the other man’s neck. He is playing a game now- his envisages it as if looking at a map. He starts at England’s ear, nipping and licking and occasionally stealing a kiss, sweet and deep, from his parted lips. He moves to his clavicle and down, down, a little venture down the proverbial coast. Nothing more than a Sunday drive to begin. He explores a bit more each time before kissing trails up and starting all over again. With each small journey he feels Arthur’s muscles tense increasingly beneath him, anticipating the end game but enjoying each moment as it unravels.   
Alfred can nearly taste the moonlight and concentrates on his lover’s Northeasterly region. If he can objectify this a bit, he will last longer. This is proving difficult: he is America after all and not used to self-restraint.  
The burnished light accompanied by his heightened senses allows Alfred to see things he has never observed about England. There is the most delightful raised vein on the inside of his left arm- the one closest to the window and most illuminated. His awakening wolfish aspect senses pulsating heat, the flow of blood beneath the surface.   
Alfred reaches for Arthur’s hand where it is lays like a nesting star on the blanket, wanting to pin him down until he struggles and pleads for mercy. Instead, Alfred takes his index finger- easily the size of two of Arthur’s own fingers, and places it in the middle of Arthur’s palm, tracing slow circles there- the barest of sensations. He adds one finger at a time, sliding his index up Arthur’s, his ring finger, on and on until he is forcing Arthur’s fingers to open wider and accommodate his and, thus seizing his hand, brings it slowly to his lips.  
Below him, Arthur’s eyes flutter.   
America finds himself in sudden admiration of their contrasts: the way Arthur’s candle thin fingers entwine with his own, Arthur’s quiet passive strength- his impending loss of control without surrender. This thought pulls an even larger grin from Alfred and he is all at once consumed with a voracious possessiveness. Experimentally, he sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh at the base of Arthur’s thumb. Not hard, but not soft either.   
A surge of green then Arthur’s eyes shut and his breath catches in the stillness of the room.  
That small sound of anticipation on England’s lips- caused by America’s touch- might as well be the hiss of petrol on sparked kindling and Alfred takes one last inventory of himself: where he is, what he is feeling, what feral force is hunkered down inside him, ready to spring-  
Arthur’s eyes are open again, taking in America’s every feature while he wrestles with his inner demons in the moonlight and if the look melting England’s face is not enough to give silent permission, Alfred hears the words spill-  
“I want you- I want this.”  
-in England’s very own voice, and Alfred feels the chains he’s so desperately fastened to the beast inside him snap…

(To be continued…)


End file.
